"I would slug you for that sexist comment, but you're injured, so my Hippocratic oath prohibits me from harming you."
"Okay, so I grew up in an old-fashioned home, maybe a little behind the times. But my dad hammered it into my head from day one. A man takes care of his responsibilities. A real man protects women. His woman in particular. And I can't get past the sense that I failed on that one."
Monica went silent. Dangerous. She always could outthink him. He'd be ambushed and on his butt in a heartbeat.
"Is that really all you believe you have to offer a woman?'' Her hands slowed on his back.
"I'm not following."
"Is that really all you think you give me? Tantric sex and protection, whether it be with a condom or your 24/7 escort through a war zone?''
Trick question alert. He kept his yap shut. No answer had to be better than a major screw-up response.
"I carry my own condoms and gun." Her voice filled the small chamber, soft but firm. "If that's all you think you have to offer me in a relationship, then we really are toast."
Something he'd known from the start, but just kept hoping if he dazzled her enough...
"I love you. No maybes or someday about it." Her sad laugh drifted over to him. "It's strange how you used to say those three words all the time and I never thought you meant them. But now, when you're keeping quiet about your feelings, I sense more emotion coming off you than before. Not—" she pressed her fingers to his lips "—that I'm hinting for you to say anything. Those three little words that carry such a big commitment should only be said without reservation. Otherwise, it's damned cruel when they're taken back."
This line of argument, at least, he knew how to combat. "Don't confuse me with your mother. I would never walk out on a commitment. You know I'm not going to leave you."
Still missing those three words, Korba, logic taunted.
"I'm not just a commitment or someone to protect, Jack."
Damn, this was getting out of control. He was feeling out of control, something he sure as shit didn't need right now in the middle of a combat zone. Jack nudged her back until she had no choice but to sit up as he swung his legs off the bunk, a maneuver that hurt like a son of a bitch. "What the hell are we fighting about?"
"Nothing." She rushed to stop him, her hands falling on his shoulders to keep him from moving. "We're not fighting. You're resting."
"Then we're canning this conversation now or I'll be doing all my best Greek dances from the cockpit out the load ramp."
The fight seeped from her hands. "God bless it, Jack, I'm pissed. Don't make me laugh right now."
Yeah, he was good at that. Lob a joke at life when things got rough and leave the deep stuff to more sensitive dudes. Hell, he'd already dug so deep inside himself for what to give this woman he was damn near bleeding out.
And just that fast, an image of his dream slammed over him. Of Monica bleeding out. Time passing. Him not able to save her.
Now he knew. Her wounds weren't outside, but rather inside. Insecurities inflicted from her childhood. An elusive enemy he couldn't fight with weapons, but would have to look in himself for weapons he didn't possess.
This was his brother's territory, damn it. She needed substance that Jack was afraid hadn't been issued him by the big man upstairs along with a sense of humor and a cache of knock-knock jokes. >Yes. Yes. Say yes, damn it, before the top of his head exploded.
"And you're getting good at maneuvering the flight surgeon."
"I'm only interested in convincing you."
He led the way up the narrow stairwell, wincing at each tug to his leg working its way through whatever numbing shot Monica had given him before digging out the bits of metal and stitching him up. And he couldn't afford to take mind-mussing pain pills.
Clearing the last step to the cockpit, he found Crusty sprawled in the aircraft commander's left seat eating a handful of chocolate-chip cookies by the hazy neon glow of a chemstick.
"Take a hike." Jack jerked a thumb toward the stairwell.
Crusty looked from Jack to Monica, back to Jack. "Seat's comfy here and there's nobody around to snitch my food. What's in it for me if I leave?"
Not getting pounded for yanking my chain? "I could pull the senior officer gig and order you out, but since I'm a nice guy and a little off my game after being shot in the ass—''
"All right! All right." Crusty rolled to his feet. "No need to play the sympathy card."
"Thanks. And, hey, Crusty, if you keep anyone else from coming up, there's a bag of licorice down in my flight bag that's all yours. I need to talk to Monica." Talk being the euphemistic understatement of the century. Oh, yeah.